The Casino Man
by CKTG
Summary: A wrecked car and two crushed phones are all anyone can find of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and their return is in the capable hands of Scotland Yard. What Lestrade can't understand, however, is why Sherlock's big brother won't help the cause. Includes: Asexual!Hurt!Sherlock and Doctor!Hurt!John. No Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello again! I'm back in the world of Sherlock! Hurrah! And just in time for Thanksgiving. The facts:**

**Summary: **A wrecked car and two crushed phones are all anyone can find of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and their return is in the capable hands of Scotland Yard. What Lestrade can't understand, however, is why Sherlock's big brother won't help the cause. Includes: Asexual!Hurt!Sherlock and Doctor!Hurt!John. No Slash.

**Pairings: **None. You know me better than that! No slash.

**Warnings: **Swearing, a touch of creepiness, all the usual jargon.

Also, I should mention that this story is in a completely different universe than Abducted. It's an entirely new story. No torture in this one folks, sorry. Updates will be irregular, but I will get them out as soon as I can :) I aim for once a week, but don't get discouraged if the wait is longer. I live to serve! Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't have to go to college. Unfortunately, BBC has the rights to this incredible show, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has the rights to the friendship I envy with all my soul, so I have to go learn stuff and spend the rest of my life at my 9 to 5 office job paying it off. But at least I have fanfiction to console me :)**

* * *

The Glittering Thief

* * *

Chapter One

_00:05:14:32_

Detective Inspector Lestrade glared up at the sky, hands on his hips, ignoring the flashing red and blue lights dazzling the crisp, green leaves of the trees and outlining the riddles in the old bark in favor of counting the few clouds in the rising dawn. Pinks, oranges, and yellows striped the overcast atmosphere, disappearing beyond the horizon of the lazy highway that stretched from Dartmoor to London. The chill in the air bit his weathered cheeks, and Lestrade tightened his dark blue Police jacket about his torso.

It had to have been a mistake. Just a dream. Perhaps in a few hours he would shake himself awake and he would be lying on his cheap mattress in his cheap flat in the middle of London, preparing himself for another day of homicides and robberies and that endless tier of paperwork on his desk.

The crime scene he was forced to oversee was not pretty. He wasn't even sure it was his division.

Metal shrapnel and glass littered the grass surrounding the road, the most of it framing the crushed heap Sherlock and John's borrowed car had become, suggesting the car rolled a few times before slamming its side into a waiting tree. The left side of the car was slightly more compacted than the right, the frame of the car splintering and cracking as it conformed to this new shape. A long, thin crack trailed the entirety of the sure-to-be bullet-proof glass (Lestrade wouldn't put it to Sherlock's brother to have him drive anything less protective than that), which made Lestrade wonder what the hell could have cracked it. The door on the driver's side was completely torn off, lying about somewhere in the depths of the trees, almost as if a giant had come by just to rip it off and throw it away for sport. Inside the car only one airbag had deployed, the white, deflated balloon tearing clean through the blood stained steering wheel. There was a circular smear of red on the right side of the glass, where a normal car windshield would have cracked had a human skull tried to bang its way through the glass.

There weren't any dead bodies. Thank God for small mercies.

However, there was no sign of John or Sherlock _anywhere_.

Both seatbelts looked as if large hedge cutters had sawn right through, leaving tatters and strips of the black line hanging from the bent walls of the car and flutter with each passing of the morning breeze. The oddest sight of the scene yet were John and Sherlock's mobile phones, both within ten feet of the totaled car, completely smashed in and concave like crushed tin soda cans. It didn't make any sense at all. No bodies, crashed car, and illogically placed cell phones. Even John and Sherlock's overnight bags were still in the back of the car. Granted, their clothes were crumpled, wrinkled, and strewn about the place, but it didn't look like any article of clothing was gone.

Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face, wishing for a cigarette and for an extension on his vacation. He had left Dartmoor hours before Sherlock and John, returning because he was needed at another crime scene. As both the consulting detective and the good doctor hadn't been to Baker Street yet when Lestrade needed their help, he had called John to learn they hadn't even left the town of their latest adventure. John sounded about ready to keel over from lack of sleep; he had been muttering about his desire to return home and make himself a nice cup of tea.

_He's not getting his tea, today, _Lestrade thought grimly, forcing away the fear of the condition of his lost friends in order to do his job. Sherlock and John _needed _him right now, and getting worried about them would do nothing to save them from whatever trouble they were in.

Lestrade turned to look behind him as Jones and Barton rolled out the yellow Police tape, sectioning off the crash from the rest of the world. Very few cars passed on the M-5 highway (as such when it was barely five in the morning), those that did slowing down so they could get a good look at whatever was happening. Pedestrians thought it was so exciting; they wanted a good look. Lestrade found their rubbernecking very annoying.

Irritation aside, Lestrade called to a black woman with dark, frizzy hair and heavy bags under her eyes, "Donovan, search the surrounding woods for Sherlock and John. If they had managed to get themselves out of the car, they couldn't have gone very far."

Sally nodded blankly, clicking on her radio and speaking into it, coordinating a small search party. Once the shadows of the towering trees enveloped Sally and five other officers, a quiet voice spoke up.

"They won't be there."

"_Jesus _Christ!" Lestrade jumped. He turned around to see Mycroft Holmes walking up to him, his umbrella kicking up dirt with his every other step, his overlarge, impeccable navy blue suit free of any creases owning up to his job as perhaps the most dangerous man in the world. His ginger-brown hair was slicked back, and he looked down upon Lestrade over his slanted nose, his piercing eyes that were so like Sherlock's eerily surveying the broken car and stripped woods with a few darting glances before he issued a polite smile. Lestrade couldn't help but gape at the man. "Don't _do _that! At least make some bloody noise when you arrive."

Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I thought the helicopter would have been rather obvious."

Lestrade's face fell slack. "Heli—?" but then stopped at the heavy buffering sound that he had finally recognized as the aerodynamic machine. Lestrade had been so worried about the disappearance of Sherlock and John that he had failed to notice the sound of a helicopter! And that thing was bloody loud, too.

Bewildered and awed at the same time, Lestrade shook his head and ran an impatient hand through his silver hair. "Right," he said, "Of course." Looking up to the posh man with the oddly impassive face, he asked, "Why did you arrive by helicopter?"

Mycroft's condescending look of are-you-really-that-stupid was so consistent to Sherlock's that Lestrade nearly laughed. He held it in, however, for it would be highly inappropriate to do so in front of the man who ran the entire country and had enough power to make him disappear. Mr. Holmes's face smoothed out, however, before he said, "It was efficient, since I was out of the country."

"Out of the country—hang on," (something had clicked in Lestrade's head, and it made him uneasy) "You would have had to leave _hours _ago. How in the hell did you know?"

Mr. Holmes lifted the tip of his umbrella from the trampled grass and inspected it as if to test the shine in the rising sun. "I found it a bit… troublesome once both Sherlock and John's mobiles had disappeared from my radar within thirty seconds of each other."

Confused as ever, Lestrade just stood back on his heels, hands on his hips, as he waited for Mr. Holmes to explain. "How do you know they won't be in the forest?"

Mr. Holmes sighed in extreme exasperation, as if it were a waste of his time to explain himself, and ambled closer to the wreckage, eying it with a most clinical gaze. "Take a look at this scene, Greg. There are many things wrong with this picture, as I'm sure you could catch."

Lestrade nodded, scanning his eyes over the bits of debris and expelled clothing articles, trying to see the world how a Holmes would (and failing spectacularly). "No bodies, only blood on the driver's seat…"

"The driver would have been Sherlock," Mr. Holmes cut in, his eyebrows pushing together in what Lestrade hoped was worry.

"How in the world would you know that?" Lestrade asked, bewildered.

Mr. Holmes eyed him carefully. "Strands of black curls on the seat and dashboard of the driver's side, a throw blanket that could only be John's on the passenger's seat—my brother doesn't sleep much, Greg, and most definitely not whilst in a moving vehicle. Also, given my brother's annoying desire to control everything about a situation, I do not think he would be able to handle someone else, even his best friend, drive a two ton automobile in his place… but then again, he does love cabs…" Mr. Holmes sighed again, a most bored expression adorning his face. "Also, your records may prove that Doctor Watson can't drive."

This was a surprise. "What?"

"He doesn't have a license, Gregory."

Lestrade flushed in embarrassment; he was only glad that it was Mr. Holmes pointing out his inadequacies instead of Sherlock. Mr. Holmes had more tact than his younger brother, more sense not to thoroughly humiliate him in front of his police force.

With a cough and a nervous scratch behind his ear, Lestrade nodded and gestured for Mr. Holmes to continue with his report.

There was a moment's silence as Mr. Holmes stepped graciously over to the crushed car, avoiding the pointed glass sticking dangerously from the ground and fueling light through its thin planes. Once he was merely two feet from the gaping hole the torn door had created, Mr. Holmes paused in his movements and stood stock still, his feet pressed firmly together, his knees locked, his spine straight, his hands clasped over the polished handle of his umbrella. With an almost pinched, concentrated look on his face (eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but otherwise blank of emotion), he looked into the car, deducing in a style so much different, but much the same as his little brother. While Sherlock moved constantly with jittering energy, Mycroft stayed still as a statue, his pale eyes moved and burned with such intensity that Lestrade was sure any second the car would implode just to escape his gaze.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked tiredly.

Mr. Holmes quickly came back to the real world, his shoulders relaxing minutely as he blinked a few times. "They were dragged from the car. Check the neighboring towns for anything… suspicious."

"Shouldn't we be checking hospitals?" Lestrade asked in surprise.

Mr. Holmes's face was grim. "No."

"What?" Lestrade swallowed at the implications that Sherlock and John weren't as safe as he would like them to be. "How do you know that?"

Mr. Holmes looked down upon Lestrade before helpfully pointing out his reasoning. He shifted his position, rolling his shoulders back and making his face as impassive as possible. "They were going at least seventy-five miles per hour when they rolled over. Had they not been in one of my cars, they would have died instantaneously, but instead left it with minor injuries."

"Minor?" Lestrade eyed the smear of blood where Sherlock had hit his head on the windshield.

"Compared to death, certainly." Mr. Holmes stated this as if commenting on the weather. With his umbrella, he gestured to the ground, where there must have been an indent or crushed grass, something that could only be seen with a huge magnifying lens… or a Holmesian eye. "There and there, footprints of a woman's sneaker, size eight and a half. I'm sure your forensics team will be able to pick up her height, her weight, her gait, and her walking pace… though it may be hindered slightly."

"Us?" Lestrade gaped at the man. Surely Mr. Holmes had an entire Secret Service at his beck and call. "Sorry, what?"

Mr. Holmes sighed. "Despite my brother's constant belittling of New Scotland Yard, you are truly capable to handling investigations on your own. Besides," he said, eyeing his umbrella with such impassivity Lestrade would have guessed the man was entirely bored. "My men are currently—ah—busy at the moment, and this is a matter of trust."

The polite smile on the Government official's face was meant to be soothing, but Lestrade found it anything but. Why the hell wasn't Mycroft Holmes taking more interest in the disappearance of his brother? It seemed oddly out of character, but he would have time to dawdle on that later. He had an investigation to direct, and extraneous uncertainties wouldn't do him any good.

"Mr. Holmes, did you say a _woman _was here?" Surely she wouldn't have been strong enough to take on two fully grown and trained men on her own.

"Perhaps I should paint the picture for you," Mr. Holmes said, a look of complete disdain conquering his features. It was surprising to Lestrade, as Mycroft was usually the more tolerant of the two brothers. "Imagine my brother and John driving on their way back to London. Late night, so John is tired, my brother more likely wide awake, given he had just finished a case and let his body shut down for at least six hours. John forces my brother to eat, they both get into the car, and drive away. The blanket there on the passenger seat indicates John Watson entered a deep sleep, trusting Sherlock to get them there safely. Now… what goes wrong?"

Lestrade frowned, hands on his hips, as he searched the car for the answer. Nothing came to him, so he shrugged. "I don't know... what?"

"Sherlock spoils you," Mr. Holmes sighed. He stepped closer to the car, glass crunching underneath the soles of his very expensive, shining black shoes and pointed to the blood smear on the wheel with the tip of his umbrella. "Blood on the steering wheel, I should think it to be Sherlock's, but the only explanation of it being there in that odd sort of way is if he was bleeding _before _the accident."

"And?"

"Dear Lord…" Mr. Holmes muttered this under his breath, then raised his voice to its usual politeness, but there was an unsaid insult in the undertones of his breath. "The subject of this case they had just solved was of the H.O.U.N.D. drug. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock and John have been exposed to it, at least twice. John, given his regular eating and sleeping habits, would have gotten rid of the drug quicker than my brother. And Sherlock, the still recovering drug addict—although he insists he's never had an addiction—his system would have tried to hold onto the hallucinogen for as long as possible. Sherlock probably thought there wouldn't be any long lasting effects. He notices something is wrong, perhaps tries to wake John, and passes out at the wheel."

"Shit." Lestrade ran a hand through his graying hair and blew out a long, calming breath.

Mr. Holmes ignored his expletive. "John wakes as the car veers off course, and the position of the blanket and how the blood is _only _on Sherlock's seat indicates that John reached over to steer and wake Sherlock at the same time, ends up making the car roll over…" he trailed off, his eyes glazed over with thought only momentarily, and snapped back to reality with the frightening clarity of his eyes. "Whether that was intentional or not is unknown, but it saved both of their lives… they could have hit a tree head on, and then we'd have a joint funeral to attend to. And I _really _don't have the time this week."

Lestrade was shocked at how callous the man was about the possibility of his brother's death. It was unnerving to how unaffected he was to it all. Surely the man cared a little?

"But none of that matters," Mr. Holmes continued, swinging his umbrella to and forth, "The most pressing matter is where are they now?"

Lestrade was about to answer, but then Sally's voice, surprisingly soft, echoed through his walkie-talkie: _"No sign of them, sir. The entire perimeter has been searched. We found nothing."_

Lestrade let out a weary sigh; of course Mr. Holmes would be right, and he could see it on the man's partially smug face. Feeling more tired and old by the second, Lestrade pressed the button on his communicator and avoided Mr. Holmes's eyes, "Alright, Sally, wrap it up. Send the boys home to file a missing persons report… get Anderson on forensics right away."

"_And us, sir?"_

Lestrade sighed heavily again before replying, "We're staying here. I'll explain everything when you get back."

"_Copy that_."

Once the static filled voice of Sergeant Donovan faded from the chilled air of the early morning, and Lestrade noticed with vague surprise that the sun had raised high in the sky, creating its usual grey overcast behind the heavy clouds. The air was still cold, however, and Lestrade zipped his jacket up to his neck.

"You said something about a woman dragging them both from the car…" Lestrade said, skepticism entering his voice. He would never tell Mr. Holmes he was wrong to his face, but he could sure as hell imply it when he didn't know what was going on.

"Yes," Mr. Holmes said. "Do use your imagination. Tire tracks only twenty feet from the accident… you may want to pull those up as well. A woman driving early in the morning saw Sherlock and John's car. Since law enforcement always covers these occasions, she must have been astonished it hadn't been reported yet, and went to take a look herself." His expression hardened, and Lestrade felt his blood go cold. "A sensible person would have called the local police let them handle it, however, upon seeing who the victims were, she decided to take them herself. You are looking for a woman… mid-forties, perhaps, with an unhealthy obsession with John's blog. A person like that could never resist such an… opportunity to meet her heroes."

Dread dropped within the pits of Lestrade's stomach so quickly he was surprised he was still on his feet. "Oh, my god."

"Quite," Mr. Holmes agreed, staring at the tip of his umbrella once more. "And sometimes an admirer can be more dangerous than an enemy—I'm sure the situation is quite clear to you." He hesitated for a moment, an unknown and conflicted emotion in his eyes, before he said, "I trust you to bring them home, Gregory. Do not be late."

Stunned, Lestrade watched as Mr. Holmes departed, walking along the edge of the empty highway and onto the nearest field, where a large, thundering helicopter waited for him.

And apparently Sally had been speaking to him. He screwed his face up in concentration, shoving all thoughts and worry about his new case away for a moment, before he turned to look at his sergeant.

"Inspector, I asked who that man was," she repeated, disgruntled at being ignored.

Lestrade took in her frizzled appearance, which had calmed down somewhat with the brisk weather and an early morning search through the woods, and shook his head, taking his eyes away from the man with the umbrella. He didn't even have the security clearance to say the man's name.

Instead, Lestrade said, "the worst nightmare someone could wish on another," and made certain the forensics team on hand uplifted samples of the most visible footprint and tire track (though they were more insistent on the blood samples, but Lestrade already knew who those belonged to).

Once everyone on his team but Sally Donovan left the scene, she and Lestrade entered his cop car and headed route to the nearest town. He had a plan in mind, and that involved switching out his car for a cheap replacement. He wouldn't want to spook John and Sherlock's biggest fan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Quick note! I just realized I already have a title with "Thief" in it, so when I come up with something entirely different, don't freak out! Also, this chapter has been a real pain in the rear end for me... it just didn't want to cooperate. So sorry for any mistakes! And beware the dream sequence (if you read it slowly, it should make a bit of sense). Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Two

_00:06:28:57_

"So let me get this straight," Sally began, disbelief coloring her tone as she set down her luke-warm coffee upon the cheap table. She and Lestrade had arrived at this diner merely ten minutes before. Lestrade felt his heart sinking as he saw the skepticism in her dark brown eyes. "You think some creepy _fan _kidnapped Sherlock and John, after they had crashed their car, and didn't call an ambulance?"

Lestrade scrubbed at his face, looking down at his untouched coffee as if it would give him a much needed answer, rattling off deductions like a certain consulting detective would. But Sherlock wasn't there, and he might not ever be again unless he found the consulting detective and his best friend within the week. The thought was enough to drive Lestrade to deeply desire a cigarette… and he was wearing a nicotine patch already.

The booth they sat in was practically made of plastic, but it was much more comfortable and much less confining than his cop car, for which Lestrade was grateful. With the impending worry beating at his left temple and his anger at the sheer stupidity Sherlock was about his own body's limits beating at his right, Lestrade now had a horrible migraine that stretched from his graying hairline to right behind his tired, itching eyes. He couldn't concentrate on much at the moment—what he really needed was _sleep_, but he knew he wouldn't be getting any, especially with the rare trust of Mycroft _bloody _Holmes weighing heavily on his shoulders. And he was positive if he failed to turn up Sherlock and John, he would disappear as well.

(God, he needed to smoke.)

Shaking his head, Lestrade looked up and averted his eyes from his Sergeant, choosing instead to take in his surroundings, carefully scanning over the women sitting alone in the diner. It was a nearly depressing place, with warped wooden flooring, the knots that were once in trees left to be trampled on by the average customer. Booths lined the walls, the tables rectangular and decrepit, with a half-hearted attempt at being cheerful with its candy apple red plastic fabric that squeaked with every possible movement imposed upon it. The bar was tall and the stools carried the same bright upholstery. Behind it a bored looking woman with bleached blonde hair and a liking for chewing gum leaned against the surface, her shirt dipping low enough to make Lestrade swallow and look away uncomfortably. The calming scent of bitter coffee was enough to make Lestrade feel sick—he didn't want to be calm, he couldn't _afford _to be calm, not now, not since his friends had been taken and most likely suffering unattended injuries from a car accident.

A businesswoman with a pug-like face and purple lips caught his attention, and he watched her order with the skinny waitress until he took a look at her hands; they were tiny. She wouldn't have fit the profile anyway—he couldn't see a dainty thing like her dragging Sherlock, a six foot tall praying mantis of a man, to a car. A small family with giggling children and a gurgling toddler slapping the slick surface of his high chair with incessant enthusiasm were his next suspects. Unfortunately, both parents were male—they didn't fit the profile, either (Mr. Holmes had said the kidnapper was a woman, and a Holmes was rarely wrong). A construction worker with a bland face and tightly corded arms grinned cheekily at the busty hostess, making her blush. Disgusted by his lack of a lead, Lestrade turned away and faced Sally. She was watching him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"Look, I know it sounds far-fetched," Lestrade began, scratching at his temple, but Sally stopped him.

"Who was that man at the crime scene?" she asked, but for once it wasn't a demand, which was the course she usually took when she was annoyed with him. Her thin face tilted to the side, her cocoa skin appearing lighter where the morning sun peered through the blinds of their window to streak her face. She was merely curious, which was such a change from what he was used to that Lestrade hesitated. Sally Donovan was just starting out on the force when Sherlock went through the beginning tremors of withdrawal down in the cold holding cells at Scotland Yard a little over six years ago. Because she had been only a junior officer, fresh out of training, she wouldn't have been there late at night when Mycroft Holmes came to collect his brother. In fact, Lestrade was one of the only ones still at the station, taking the night shift, therefore he had been the very one to unlock the cell for the intimidating man with the umbrella.

Lestrade shook his head again, dispelling the odd memory. Meeting Mycroft Holmes was probably the most single-handedly strangest and most terrifying experiences of his life. "Sorry, Sally. I can't tell you," Lestrade said after a few moments of consideration. At her glare, Lestrade grew even more irritated, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting at her; he was too stressed for her games. His tone was sharp and hard; "No, Donovan. It's a Need to Know basis. Take it from me when I say it's not worth it."

Sally looked affronted at Lestrade's callous behavior, but eventually quailed under his glower and looked down at her coffee. Immediately, guilt welled up within him, coating the lining of his stomach, and he regretted being cross with Sally. He sighed, "I'm sorry, Sally, but right now we should focus on finding Sherlock and John."

She looked up, her dark, tight ringlets bouncing about her shoulders. "So, what… should we put up posters? You know, like they do with lost pets…?"

The horror at such an idea must have shown on his face, because Sally trailed off, raising an eyebrow for him to explain himself. "No," Lestrade said, finally taking a sip of his coffee. It was bitter and cold; Lestrade grimaced at the taste. "No posters. We can't let the press know they're gone. Jesus Christ, imagine the fuss… we have to be very subtle. This isn't a usual criminal who took them, Sally." He said this very solemnly, very clearly; Sally _must _know this. It was very important. He stared into her dark eyes, trying to convey that she _must _look past her hatred for Sherlock Holmes so they can bring him and the good doctor out alive. Lestrade knew that despite her hatred for Sherlock Holmes, she wouldn't want the man dead.

She must have gotten the message he was trying to convey because she nodded, all traces of skepticism gone, her face serious and her jaw set. The wrinkles on her forehead smoothed out and her lips pursed into a hard line. "Right then," she said, pushing aside her coffee, the few sips that were left sloshing along the insides of the ceramic mug. The look in Sally's dark brown eyes was of determination and professional interest. "How're we going to do this?"

* * *

_00:08:53:20_

Nothing.

At least, that's where Sherlock originally thought he was, as there was nothing left to observe other than the pitch of black layering over his eyelids, making his eyes falter and create swirling visions of blue and green. Every once in a while (though when, Sherlock wasn't quite sure, as time was irrelevant to his current situation) red would conquer his world, and Sherlock detested when his existence was painted this color; it was an annoyance that would be forgotten once it eclipsed into a more calm, familiar world of peace and absence.

For when the color red came, so did less pleasant feelings of heavy awareness and a series of panicked mumblings (were they panicked? Sherlock had a certain aversion to panic, so perhaps the sounds were just rapid). And so did the pain. Sherlock despised the pain, the way it pulled down on the numb peace he had grown used to in this void of nothingness, the way it pounded through his head like the steady beating of a drum (was it a drum? It could have been footsteps pounding on the floor beside him—or was he on the floor at all?).

After a while, Sherlock noticed the backwards difference between the two worlds of contrasting color: it wasn't that the mumblings were too fast for him to understand, it was that the darkness with impending calming colors was too _slow _for his preferred bearing. The annoyance he felt was not _at_ the color red, but at the little fact that he wasn't able to keep himself on the seemingly distant planet of awareness, to try and figure out who he was, where he was, and why he was feeling such an urgency. He was missing something important, he knew, but what he was missing, Sherlock couldn't quite figure it out.

(And how maddening that prospect was! In the back of his mind, a cowering thought came forth—he was brilliant. A known fact to the world around him, a fact he reveled in. Problems weren't such a hassle to solve, but at the moment he couldn't even muster up the strength to use his senses! If there was a problem, he was of no use, not when he was trapped here within his own brain, his Mind Palace at too much a perilous journey to walk.)

The dark haze washed over, and in came his suffering dreams (or nightmares, he supposed, for whenever he dreamed his nightly visions were never sweet), flashing colors of red and blue, one replacing the other, washing the original dusty color from the wall behind him. Hardness brought pain under his rump and against his shoulder blades, grounding him to the Earth (though whether his pain was real or imagined, Sherlock couldn't be sure) while a daze of seemingly floral dizziness floated. His head felt like it had been slapped and filled with helium at the same time. At these loathsome ramblings, Sherlock harbored a sense of déjà vu, having forgotten the times his rushing thoughts had been dulled to a much more manageable level. He was caught in an in-between—a sort of limbo, as his friend (did he have a friend?) would say.

These dreams of flashing lights and angry, disappointed faces were always mild compared to the dreams of his withdrawal treatment with his brother (he _did _have a brother, didn't he? It could have been a mental slip, but it seemed right… now if only Sherlock could remember his brother's name…). And as Sherlock sat back to reminisce in his past, he was happy to announce this was _not _a memory of a white, padded cell, but of one with ill-fitting clothing and the filth of the nondescript London alleyway clinging to his skin as he sat slumped against the brick wall of the nearest establishment (which also happened to be the very place he obtained his supply from). He had been so far gone he had even forgotten his own name (not unlike now, but somewhere above the gloomy scene someone was shouting for him). And someone familiar had been screaming in his face, something as slippery as death grasping his arms and pulling him toward a rushing tidal wave of darkness and silence, the very thing he always strove for…

He had moaned in protest at this new development… he did not like the demons gripping his forearms, pressing against his wrists and shaking him so roughly his head had drooped to his chest (but not before hitting the painfully solid wall behind him). The now searing throb at the back of his head spiked to the fore front of his sinuses, adequately clearing his stupor enough to realize that that demon who had come to drag him to hell did not exist; in its place there was a man with silvery hair of whom he recognized, but at the time could not muster up anything other than he was a newly promoted Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard with an unhappy marriage and a bacon sandwich for lunch (which made Sherlock wonder about the last time he had eaten—he felt particularly light-headed—had he nearly overdosed again?). When mumbling his deductions about the new senior officer, he took the small pleasure in watching the man's tired eyes widen in disbelief and suspicion.

(Ah, this must be the first time he had met DI Lestrade, not the time he had overdosed like he originally suspected as he watched his own memories like a ghost returning to his most hated haunt. He looked upon his younger self in disdain, turning up his nose at the short, greasy curls and the pallid skin as the almost disgustingly thin man heaved near panicked breaths in an attempt to calm his vision. His hands shook, and Sherlock's lip curled at this horrid display of weakness he had once shown.)

Lestrade was crouched in front of Sherlock, grasping his arms in a most painful grip in order to keep him lucid enough to talk (but it was unnecessary, quite unnecessary, as Sherlock's brain worked perfectly fine). Lestrade was talking slowly, sternly, and clearly, at first asking if Sherlock was alright, then to ask him about suspicious activity around the bar.

_"Oh, I'm fine… I've only taken a bit of the cocaine the dealer leant me—it's a clean batch, I've checked it myself, so don't worry about poisoning—but if it's the killer of the Hampton twins you're after…"_

And suddenly his and Lestrade's voices drowned in an ocean of peace and calm as a newer voice broke through, a voice he knew well, a voice that belonged to someone important, but whom it belonged to, Sherlock couldn't quite remember. The lights flashed confusedly as the red tint grew along the edges of his collective haze.

_"This guy? A junkie? I bet you could search this place all day and you wouldn't find anything you could call 'recreational'."_

Shame, embarrassment, irritation, and slight confusion (since when did _anyone _defend him or his interests? For all he had remembered, he had always been alone, and it was a fact he had accepted since his brother went off to college to leave him to fend for himself—his brother was the only one, other than their numerous butlers, to pay him any attention at all, and without that, who was he?). He couldn't figure out why he felt all those conflicting emotions (ugh. Sentiment) over the span of a second because of a man he had barely met.

_"Yeah, but who is he?"_

_"I said he's with me."_

The man's voice was back, this time encouraging and exasperated: _"Sherlock, you're doing really well—don't give up now."_

Sherlock was about to call out, to demand who this man was (and it certainly wasn't his brother, that much he knew), but the flashing lights returned, as did the gloom of the alley, the sirens blaring through the ocean tide pulling on his eardrums, revealing the shaking aches that wore down deep in his very bones as he waited in a grey, discolored cell (where the hell did _that _come from?). His sweating curls stuck to the cement block of a bench as he laid his heavy and burning head against its cool surface, shivering as his clumsy, shaking fingers plucked at his loose button up shirt. It had been too hot, he remembered, but it was cold as well, waiting in a barred cell for someone to bail him out.

A blurry face swam into his eyes, exasperated and cold, dark gingerish hair slicked back, piercing gray eyes full of icy anger, thin lips pressed into a hard, pale line. He knew this face, and it had called for irritation to rise to his fingertips and just beneath the skin on his neck. Instead of replying to the itch and applying it to his brother's neck, Sherlock had groaned and turned to the blank sparse of wall, muttering "Go away, Mycroft."

(So _that _was his brother's name! A bit prissy, no doubt, but it was a name. Perhaps it was best his mother died before she could have more children.)

Another voice, one he didn't recognize this time, came, and suddenly his confused dreams swirled away, leaving only the red beneath his eyelids and the sudden swoop of awareness. His senses worked to a point, and there was the sickening smell of a woman's perfume, overused and much too sweet, making it near impossible to concentrate, had there not been a throbbing pain at the front of his skull and lazing around his lower regions. Something rough and damp swabbed at his forehead, and Sherlock instinctively turned away.

"Oh, Sherlock dear, don't worry, I've got you."

_Who the hell are you? _Sherlock felt like asking, but his tongue was swollen and his mouth dry. All that came forth was an anguished groan. Pathetic.

"I've got you," the voice shushed again, quieter this time. The dabbing continued, and he wanted nothing else but for it to stop.

Once his senses grasped a mediocre understanding (he still couldn't figure out where he was or what had happened), the urgency he had felt before rose to his mind as he struggled to open his eyes against the light battering red on his closed eyelids—and he remembered: John. Where was John, his only friend? He tried to ask his question out loud, but he only managed to grunt out his friend's name.

A feminine chuckle temporarily froze Sherlock's unusually sluggish thoughts. Was John hurt? Was he there? Could Sherlock speak to him? More inquiries such as these struck forth, and Sherlock couldn't utter a single word. The struggle must have shown because there was a soft sigh and a few damp curls were swept from his sweating forehead (ah, so he hadn't imagined the heat from before, then). Sherlock wanted to scowl, to bat away the hands that caressed his face, to at least open his eyes, but a heavy blanket of ease kept him from being a little more than a sitting duck (which made Sherlock angry).

"No, Silly, John's not here," the voice said, high-pitched and caring, sounding as if she were a mother talking to a child. Though it annoyed him immensely, Sherlock listened to it and deduced fairly quickly it was a woman talking to him, one of low intelligence and affection issues. "It's just Maggie." Her tone hardened in the next sentence as if daring him to challenge her. "And I'm your biggest fan."

Sherlock suddenly found himself wishing for his fevered dreams.

"You've been quite the patient," the voice—Maggie—sighed. The cool cloth dabbed delicately at his neck, and Sherlock let out a grunt of displeasure; would this woman _stop?_ He wanted nothing more than to snap at her to _Go Away_ (Or, even better, to _Piss Off_), but his tongue felt enlarged and dry, and he couldn't move his jaw if he so desired. Maggie continued, to Sherlock's annoyance, "Mumbling in your sleep—o' course, that would be the fever, I expect. Your forehead is exceptionally warm… it makes me uneasy."

A few more sweat-drenched curls were brushed tenderly from his face, and now that Sherlock was awake, it sent unpleasant tremors down his spine. He _hated _this motherly touch. He wanted it to stop. He struggled in vain to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt sewn shut. The red glare irritated him and the annoyance was so threatening that if Sherlock had control of his limbs he would lash out, striking the first thing in his path. The anger, however, wasn't enough to fuel his needs. Sherlock felt a bit of the resistance crumbling, but it wasn't enough for his body to comply with his desires.

Maggie sighed again, breathing bitter fumes into his lungs (immediately, his brain took collect: cheap store brand coffee, sweetened with at least three—no, four—sugars with more milk than John puts into his tea). The odor nauseated him, upturning his stomach with deceitful flips and hunger pangs (how long had it been since he'd last eaten? Surely not long; John forced half a plate of spaghetti into him before they took off from Dartmoor—that, surprisingly, he remembered), but his gag reflex wasn't quite working right for him. Sherlock couldn't even swallow; his tongue took up the majority of his mouth capacity and the roof of his mouth was scratchy as sandpaper. He was thirsty, Sherlock decided, but there was no way to let this despicable woman know.

Though he couldn't use his eyes, he could use his other senses to deduce, though he found they were not as accurate as his sight (the reason why he nearly panicked when he had "seen" the Hound; it wasn't possible, and yet he had seen it, and he hated having to doubt his most useful tool of deduction). Who exactly was this "Maggie" tending to him? Obviously not a nurse or a doctor, seeing as her bedside manner was frankly appalling and not professional at all—she was utterly too close for comfort.

This was slightly worrying: he was drugged (obviously), in pain, and with a fever (as well as with a touch of amnesia… he couldn't remember what he had last done… was he still on the H.O.U.N.D. case? No, that can't be right… he and John just solved it…), but he wasn't in a hospital. The smells were wrong: the sickly sweet perfume Maggie wore (he had done an intensive study on the stench of what women liked to spray on their chests and wrists to make themselves more attractive to their preferred tastes, and Maggie was wearing something more geared towards prepubescent girls and adolescents, but judging on how Maggie's voice was well worn and richer than a girl's, he would say the woman was at least thirty-five years old—her choice in perfume suggested she had yet to grow up, that she was attracted to sweets, and other things that was slipping his half-sluggish mind—_how infuriating!_); the warm, musty, stale smell of disused cotton sheets and a room that was left to sit for a while (a hospital would never had let a room deteriorate such as this, so he was in someone's private home, most likely somewhere he has never been—a stranger's house); clean, dampened linen (this would be the wash cloth used to dab at his face… luckily she had ceased this activity, for it had been silently driving Sherlock insane); something incredibly sour, and yet it made Sherlock want to swallow (mustard? Ah, must be on Maggie's fingers or on her shirt… she had eaten not long before coming to visit him); and something frankly disturbing, something that Sherlock wished he could walk away from or inspect, but it wasn't overpowering… just a lingering taste…

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to swallow again, but instead his throat muscles scraped together, reminding Sherlock of his ever-persistent thirst. He was smelling blood, and he hoped it was his own. The alternative was entirely unacceptable.

Maggie spoke up again, breaking the lasting silence. "You should be able to wake and talk to me soon, Sherlock… I given you a dose of morphine about six hours ago… but I'm no nurse so it could take longer…"

At her words, Sherlock felt the first tickling of unease. This woman had no idea what she was doing, and if she wasn't careful, she could end up killing him—it helped, nevertheless, that his past… assurances with the drug had increased his tolerance for it… instead, she might make him relapse on his dependency for it. This thought incensed Sherlock; how _dare_ she ruin his clean streak!

On the other hand, Sherlock also felt like scoffing or sneering down at her—he would never talk to her willingly; he hadn't even spent a full aware minute in her presence and he could tell she was of mediocre intelligence… perhaps he should use incredibly long words just so she wouldn't understand. Or he could speak another language… he knew plenty.

She took a deep breath, laying a shockingly large palm on his chest (Get your hands off me, woman). It was warm and agitating, making the skin on his chest itch because of the unwarranted touch. Sherlock felt a snarl build up, but his vocal chords wouldn't release it. Never had he wanted to throw a woman off him so badly. Usually they knew better than to disgrace his personal space with a touch—he made certain his body language screamed _stay away_—and if the weak, sniveling thing couldn't help herself, he would lash out with such fervor that she would need a therapist for at least five months. So why would this woman…?

"It gets so lonely out here, Mr. Holmes," she said sorrowfully, unknowing interrupting Sherlock's inner workings. Of her dilemma, Sherlock found he didn't give a damn.

There was a shift of fabric, the murmur of a semi-expensive brand of jeans rubbing together, and Maggie continued, her tone marginally more cheerful, "But that's alright now, Mr. Holmes. We've got each other in this daft little place. Just you and me... and sometimes my brother, Ethan."

Her speech started to sicken him, as he wanted nothing to do with this woman and her dastardly brother (and he had no qualms telling her so). Slowly, he strength returned to him, snaking sluggishly through his veins as the morphine wore off. Though he couldn't yet feel his limbs, the cotton in his throat released a little, and his tongue felt much more manageable. Carefully, he tied the loose ends of his energy together and used it to enquire about something important, something he needed to know: "Where's John?" he croaked, his voice embarrassingly quiet and hoarse.

"Oh!" Maggie was startled, and her jump jostled the hand on his chest, making aches spike with clarifying certainty through his bones (bruised ribs? Most likely, and they hurt. Damn her). Tired from his early use of energy, he suffered in silence as Maggie hyperventilated, trying to regulate her breathing as she chuckled in mortification and at her stupidity (and yes, Sherlock agreed, she was very stupid. And Dull). "You scared me, Mr. Holmes!" she cried eagerly. "I was starting to get worried… I could have given you an overdose and wouldn't have known until it was too late!"

Maggie still chuckled, and the unease within Sherlock deepened. He hadn't a clue of what was going on, but he was sure he wasn't here willingly, unless he had gotten hurt and John had taken him to a random house, but a worrying inkling deep inside him told him this wasn't the case. If it were, _John_ would be the one tending to his injuries, not this stupid wench.

"You know," Maggie said suddenly, and weight pushed down on Sherlock's bed by his unresponsive arm. She must be leaning on it. How repulsive. "When I first heard your voice, you know, on the telly, it really surprised me. Your voice is a lot deeper than I had imagined, especially with that face!" Even in his sightless state, Sherlock could tell Maggie wanted to touch him—the thought practically rolled off her in waves and buzzed in the otherwise silent room—and he was thankful she refrained from doing so. "You look fairly young with that face, with your gorgeous cheekbones and those thick, dark curls—"

Sherlock couldn't stand this any more. "Where's John?" he croaked again, deliberately interrupting her. The action used more energy that he didn't have, but it was worth it to shut her up.

Her silence was unnerving. Unwelcome scenarios flowed forth: John Watson hand-cuffed to a chair, swearing and struggling; John Watson beaten, bruised, unconscious in a corner of a derelict room; John Watson, dead and broken, lying in a damp ditch scantily disguised with snapped branches and twigs…

Sherlock gave himself a mental shake; from what he knew of Maggie so far, she didn't seem to be a killer—

—_but neither did Jim Moriarty when you first met him, _a sly voice crept through his mind. Sherlock snarled at this opposing argument. _He was Jim from IT, remember? Molly's gay boyfriend, and yet he turned into the most dangerous man—besides your brother—that you have ever met—_

—her demeanor towards him was disgustingly sentimental, if not a bit concerning seeing as Sherlock didn't have a clue to who this woman was.

The bittersweet stench of cheap coffee filtered through the otherwise stale air again, and Sherlock found, with disguised glee, that he could turn his head away from it—he could escape the foul odor for just a little while, he could make the sickening smells that made his stomach turn unpleasantly a little less overbearing. Sherlock wished heartily that she would cease her constant need to sigh, especially in his face, for occasionally the scents would transfer from his nostrils to his mouth instead of his lungs, and he would be able to taste her breath in his already dry mouth (_where was his water? Surely the woman had more than enough sense to bring a man on his sickbed a glass)_.

Sherlock felt quite a lot stronger than he had in the few tingling moments in which he had woken up, and he was able to clear some of the parched fluff blocking his vocal chords. It came out in a cough-like grunt, and he sensed Maggie start again, this time her weight perched by his elbow disappearing. "Tell me what you've done with him," Sherlock demanded raucously, for rage fueled this fulmination.

Sherlock's head snapped to the right, rolling against the pillow he rested against, at the force of her slap. A handprint burned on his left cheek, but it barely registered in his mind as a powerful force of dizziness and a steady, hurtful pounding made its way to a corner of Sherlock's forehead. The pain seared and it was all Sherlock thought about for a few seconds until it died down. After this, Sherlock felt mercifully empty from the tip of his crown to the edge of his sore jaw.

Whatever _that_ was, it had happened before her slap, not after. (Had he been injured? The dizziness made him think of a concussion, and yet the pain existed on his skin as well.)

"Don't you _dare _talk to me like that," Maggie scolded forebodingly, bringing him out of his pain-raddled thoughts.

Sherlock surprised the both of them when his eyelids flew open, and though he couldn't see anything passed the eye-watering amount of light in the room, he kept them open out of spite, glaring in the direction he knew Maggie to be at (her scent was rather unique—it wasn't hard to figure out). In a few seconds, the whiteness burning his vision speckled away, revealing the room he was in and his captor, if not a little blurrily.

The woman was not a picturesque beauty; her bland features were a washed out watercolor portrait of whites and yellows… but it was from the tint of the lamp illuminating her face. She was tall for a woman, and judging at the length of her torso and at the angle of which her knees bent, she was only a few inches shy of his six feet, but not as slender as he; though overweight, she was not morbidly obese, though her eating habits showed signs that she would eventually get there. Her thin brown hair was dull and tied back into a bun at the nape of her neck; her eyes were of a watery blue. Personal appearance: unimpressive. However, there were many other details that told him much more…

If he weren't so angry, he would have smirked. This was just too easy.

"I can talk to you however I want, _you see_," Sherlock said in a low, dangerous voice. Slowly, he pushed himself into a seated position, ignoring the warning twinges of bruises and scrapes along his back and torso, carefully bringing his useless arm to his lap (the pain of it nearly made him vomit, but he pushed it away into a box—escaping was more important than a broken arm). His head pounded at a disquieting rate, and there was something riddled with agony warning him not to go any further, but this he shoved away as well (his mind was superior to his body—he wasn't about to let a head injury hinder him useless and dependant on others… especially since John seemed to be missing).Her eyes widened at this action and she backed away slightly, alarmed. Good. "What do you have that hangs over me, hmm?" With his free, uninjured hand, he drew aside the warmth of the duvet, shocking a chill to his uncovered legs (which were fully functional and pain free, thankfully). He swung his legs over to the side of the bed, preparing himself to jump down. "You, a woman of no professional background, incredible stupidity, and mediocre skills in nursing, no doubt acquired from watching too many of those over-dramatized hospital sitcoms. You sufficiently lack motherly instinct—your attempt is pathetic and repulsive.

"No children, no husband, no lover, no family other than that _brother _of which you've told me about—no one who properly cares for you and it shows," (here, Maggie's breathing hitched, but tears did not well in her eyes as he expected. Nevertheless, Sherlock grinned cruelly down at her) "Ah, there it is," he started with mocking sympathy, his voice dropping lower, "the overwhelming loneliness—does it hurt? I bet it does, which is the reason why you've kidnapped a complete stranger to hole up in your house, which needs repairing, but I'm not _any_ stranger, am I?

"I'm the Great Sherlock Holmes, the man who you've been following on the internet just like any other _fan _who seems to enjoy reading my friend's horrifyingly romanticized views of the cases we've done together, or, as he likes to call them, _adventures_. Oh yes," Sherlock said this as her eyes widened in surprise, gaping at him with her mouth open, "I can see that in the indents of your fingers—you're constantly on the computer—right hand never leaving the mouse. You've memorized every word on John's blog. You've been to mine constantly—why else would you have taken us in instead of to a hospital like any other decent, ordinary human being? You've followed us to the point of it being obsessive, wishing for a better life than the boring, dissatisfying one you have here. No job, no future, traces of foil in your thumb nail—scratching at cards? Wanting an easy way out—you're too lazy to find work, aren't you? Forced to live off your brother's meager income, and this makes you feel guilty."

Here he stood up, controlling his almost overbearing urge to heave his intestines at this action as the pain in his head and arm worsened. His mouth dried the meager pools of saliva it had managed to collect whilst talking and a javelin, it felt, spiked through his stomach.

But this wasn't right—his mind cleared of all thought… all of his observations and deductions withered away as his head throbbed. His brain was trying to pound its way out of his skull (Oh, the pain). His arm seared (_make it stop-make it stop-make it stop_) and for a moment, he had forgotten where he was…

_No._ He ignored the pressing pain, but felt significantly weaker than before. He must escape this house and start looking for John. He ran his eyes over a now concerned Maggie and began where he left off: "Your clothes, well worn and slightly outdated; you haven't been shopping in a while—you don't want to use the money your brother has been good enough to lend to you any more than you have… that spells your guilt out right there. So a woman, unemployed, of low intelligence, versus me, a consulting detective who has better things to do than to listen to the woes of a pugnacious, predatory, parsimonious Bedlam biddy such as yourself."

He swayed on his feet and immediately straightened his spine, stepping away from the tall woman who just watched him go, mouth agape and eyes glimmering with unshed tears. His bare feet scrunched against the well-trodden deep red carpet that was warm with the heat seeping through the floorboards of the house. Sherlock reached the thin wooden door and wrenched it open, only to find himself in close proximity with a gun.

(A very familiar gun: dark grey—charcoal, really—rounded circle or spout with a dark, seemingly endless tunnel Sherlock was looking into right at that moment, self-loading, 9 mm semi-automatic, design based on an American's who had nothing better to do, it seemed. Weight: a little more than two pounds, but it wasn't the design of the gun that caused for a spark of familiarity. It was the scuff marks on the side where it had been dropped after kicked out of steady hands, the scratches when flung aside in numerous encounters with thieves and murderers, the little chip apparently only Sherlock could see from when it had fallen three stories to the hard cement road. It was a gun that was regularly at use, regularly cleaned, and showed signs of battle-wear: it was the gun of John Watson.)

The uncomfortable possibilities of where John could be came forth again… he couldn't be far… and if he was, then these people (these highly unwell civilians) would know where he was. Though Sherlock couldn't remember anything of how he had gotten into this situation, he remembered John had his gun close by. Anger rushed under his skin, and he had a strong desire to strangle this man until he gave him some answers (somehow, the reminder of his injuries kept him from that. How regrettable).

Realizing the gun in his face was meant to be a threat, Sherlock blinked and backed away, raising a sole hand (for in the other arm he could feel the shock of a break, but he mustn't think of that now, especially since his medication was wearing off… he could feel his body shaking with the need for the drug, and it disgusted him). A man, much taller than he, came from the shadows of the door, with features similar to Maggie's (the largish nose, the mole by the right ear, the wide jaw, the watery blue eyes) but his body corded with much more muscle than was necessary. Sherlock's mind throbbed with his head injury, and his observations were failing to convert into deductions other than the inadequate basics, the simplicities: worked with his hands (calloused, fingerprints dulled… doing what? Brain, Work! Damn you!), scruff about his neck and the lower half of his face (what did this say about him?), cigarette burns on the back of his hands (old scars from childhood—abused, clearly, but what did this mean? How infuriating that his brain refused to work!), and stains underneath his fingernails, the kind that refused to wash out. Could be tar, but Sherlock was willing for it to be oil (but how this all connected was lost—it whispered tantalizingly in Sherlock's mind before it slipped away, escaping his knowledgeable grasp).

The man—presumably Ethan, Maggie's brother—grinned and looked at John's gun with a sick sort of pride. "Handy, isn't it?" his voice wasn't deep, but it wasn't high-pitched, either. It had a smooth quality to it, but it was far from soothing. "Maggie found it and gave it to me as an early birthday present. Isn't she sweet?"

"Where is John?" Sherlock asked past the pounding in his head. Through his burning thirst, his voice grated against his throat.

Sherlock was ignored. "You don't seem to think so, and you've got _quite _the vocabulary. I'll have to consult a dictionary." Ethan stalked forward, causing Sherlock to back up until he could feel the soft, thick duvet push back into the solid mattress against the back of his thigh. "Heaven knows why my sister likes you and that shrimp of a doctor so much, but you make her happy."

Ethan raised his hand, gun in the air, the 'L' of the weapon clearing visible from Sherlock's point of view, prepared to strike.

"And I'd do anything to keep her happy."


End file.
